


Weaponized

by SeaofSin



Category: Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: AU- brainwashed, Angst, Brainwashing, Canon Typical Violence, Creepy canon elements, Eventual Character Death, Eventual Smut, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Hallcuinations, Revenge, Sibling Incest, Slow Burn, Twincest, unwilling working together
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-29
Updated: 2015-09-16
Packaged: 2018-04-17 22:58:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4684463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeaofSin/pseuds/SeaofSin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Pietro would become the new breed of Hydra soldier. Gone were the days of Crossbones, gone were the days of the Winter Soldier. Quicksilver, they had called him, was going to be their deadliest yet. Stealthy, lethal, and, above all else, undetectable.”<br/>Abducted at the age of ten, Pietro Maximoff was brainwashed by Hydra. So long as he pretended to be entirely under their control, they wouldn’t subject him to further “loyalty” procedures. He wants his humanity back, and he wants to know about the mysterious red figure that visits him in his dreams. Upon escaping, he finds someone who may be able to help him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Preface

Cold.

It was all they knew now. Mother, father, dead and buried beneath two tons of bricks.

Ten years old and already made cynical by the world around them. Nothing mattered anymore, not when the only thing they were given were empty promises and talk of peace between the protestors and the government, pompous speeches all given by officials from behind the safety of their walls, presented to the masses through the artificial light of a television. Talk was cheap, and action far too risky. Nothing would change, nothing ever did. The twins had heard the same promises a few months back when their school was ruined in the bombings. What good would the politician's promises do when they were the ones pulling the strings?

What mattered now was surviving. There were three things Pietro deemed absolutely necessary for survival: food, warmth, and Wanda.

Nomads in their own city, the twins wandered, searching for the next shelter they could lay claim to, before someone bigger, and usually armed, would force them from their home. Forever aimlessly meandering, they've grown accustomed to only one constant: each other. Wanda and Pietro, Pietro and Wanda, their entire lives orbiting around their twin: their only friend in the world. It was how it was for that first year, and that is how it would forever remain.

At least, that's how they thought it would be.

Hydra had other plans.

Pietro wasn't sure how they had gotten there, or how they had gotten so much information on them, all he knew was his head felt faint, and his throat dry. He was in a cell, it seemed, and alone. Vague portions of non-distinct conversation filtered through the cracks in the steel door, ominous and unnerving.

"They're twins."

Where was Wanda? Why was he here? How?

Too much confusion, too little answers...

A cold voice replied, bringing a chill to Pietro. "Is that so? Perhaps it is time to reinstate Project Fenris."

"Project Fenris is gone. It had only worked because of their connection in utero. I would not expect the same results again."

"Nor would I. I wouldn't want to replicate the same effects. The original Fenris is a bit... too easily compromised. My intent was not to replicate, but to enhance. My intent is to give them their own abilities, have them amplified with close proximity; improve upon the original design of Fenris."

"Would that work?"

"If it doesn't, they can simply be tossed out with the rest of the bodies. Wipe their memories, it will make the initial part of the process simpler."

 _No no no... This can't be happening_...

"We shall see to it that it is done."

* * *

 

_Where did life go wrong?_

Pietro often wondered this to himself. Empty nights, empty halls, dead bodies carted out night after night. Probably other orphans.

_Fucking weak._

He's grown cold, he's lost almost all empathy. Perfect. Just how they wanted him. He was only twelve years old.

Vague, blurry memories tickled at the edge of his consciousness, something about a girl, something about her importance to him... The indistinguishable blur of a name sang out to him, something important, someone important. Days bled into nights, like watercolors, and yet this name only grew more and more faint, until he forgot. They had made certain of that.

Now, there was nothing more than the training during the day, nothing more than the barren cell at night. Pietro couldn't distinguish what was real anymore. Every waking moment felt like a nightmare, and his dreams were plagued with indistinct and probably false memories. This girl... Whoever she was, she must have been important. Or perhaps she was something concocted by Hydra to drive him to madness.

By the age of thirteen, Pietro had grown volatile, dangerous, vengeful. Every man who dared enter the haven of his cell would be attacked, nails driven into their flesh, eyes, anything vulnerable. That's when gas was administered. A white fog of indeterminable gas would filter in from the ventilation system to the room, putting him in a haze, granting the volunteers just enough time to administer sedatives so they could transport him to the experimentation chamber. Pietro's mind was dazed, unintentional thoughts being spouted from his drug addled mind aloud. More about the girl, a loud shriek of pain as the energy pulsed out from the source towards him. Nose bleeds were a frequent side effect, and he would awake back in his cell, his face spattered with the scarlet, sticky fluid and his mind in a severe state of disillusion. He could almost see the mystery girl, bathed in a crimson glow, feel the touch of her hand against the curve of his cheek as he cowered on the cold concrete floor of his dismal cell. If he closed his eyes, he swore he could hear her voice, more soothing than the sweet chime of the church bells he once knew, long before this chaos. Real or not, this girl was the only friend he had in this world.

Questions about the girl were met with hostile retort, violent retribution for a crime he was not committing. He simply wanted to know. Who was she? Why was she filling his thoughts, even if her features were indistinguishable, and her name nothing more than a faint whisper?

Hydra didn't need questions, Hydra didn't like questions. Those who questioned Hydra were weak, and the weak had to be eliminated. But he was too perfect to become training fodder, too cold, too much invested in him. So they brainwashed him. One had to suppose that the methods used on the Winter Soldier were certainly effective enough, even if they were trying to deviate away from that path. Besides, it was more about the end product, not the path taken to get there, and their end product would be anything unlike the world has seen before.

His mind became putty, theirs to play with, to mould into whatever twisted shape they saw fit, but he refused to break. He might have been their project, he might not see the light of day in God-knows how many years, but he'd be damned if they took his mind, his only safe haven, from him.

Whispers about him could be heard wherever he was dragged, sideways glances and sneers speaking of their disdain for him.

"The mongrel is resilient, we can't fault him on that. It should serve him well later on, when he's made fit."

"I've never seen one so unbreakable. Aside from the rogue. Can't believe we've somehow lost the second half of this damned experiment. This boy better well be worth it."

"The harder they are to break, the better soldiers they become in the end. Patience is the key."

His body was screaming in pain by the time the procedure is finished, or were those his own howls of pain? He couldn't tell anymore, his ears were ringing and his head swimming in disorientation after he's thrown back in his cell, not even certain when he had been brought back. The red figure had made her return that night, soothing him with a soft song, the words and melody tickling the edges of his memory. He must have known this song, this girl, and he became beyond furious that he couldn't recall any of it, his memories slowly being driven from his mind, one by one.

The next time he was put through the same procedure, he almost lost her, sobs resounding through the halls as he called out for his faceless friend. He's never felt more pathetic than that night, breaking down over a hallucination not being present. In the end, she came back for him.

"I missed you... Where were you?" he thought, curling into himself.

"They want me gone. You know that they do. They want every part of you gone... They don't want Pietro." she replied. "And they certainly don't want me."

"But I want you. You're all I've got left..."

"Then protect yourself. There's a time to rear your head, a time to fight back. And then there are times where you have to pretend. Let them think you're under their full control, let them think you've become their perfect project."

"I don't... I'm not like that." Pietro narrowed his eyes, chewing thoughtfully on the end of his lip as he examined her.

"Eventually, you will be. You'll lose you completely."

"That's not what I'm worried about. I don't want to lose you."

The next day, he was dragged off like cattle to the experimentation chamber, his mind broken again. Pietro would give them what they want; he would give them their soldier, he would give them 'loyalty', anything to keep his sanity intact. Cautiously, they approached him, asking for his name, a question to which he would always indignantly reply "I'm Pietro, I will always be Pietro, no matter that you do to me."

Today, he instead replied "I have no name", something he was certain they've been anxious to hear since the first day. They celebrated heartily at this, at the fact that they've broken their project, four years in.

He was fourteen, and he hadn't even known so until someone had mentioned how long he's been in this godforsaken facility, thinking he was under their complete control. He would weep tonight, when the guards were gone, and the lights were off. He would weep for those four lost years when no one would see him, when no one would question the effectiveness of their tests.

For the first time here, he was allowed to walk to his cell, rather than being forcefully dragged there under the influence of excessive valium, for the first time he's handed his dinner tray rather than having it slid under the door as though they were feeding some sort of rabid animal. Sadly, this also translated to the first time he realized just how disgusting the substance they called 'food' they gave him truly was.

But more importantly than that, he noticed a small error made by the kitchen staff, or whoever the hell prepared this atrocity on his tray.

He smirked to himself, taking an overwhelming amount of delight in what he found. Two knives. A mistake, something rare in this facility, something he could certainly benefit from. When the tray was slid under the door after his meal, only one knife was returned, the other secretly stashed under his pillow. That night, after the lights were dimmed and the guards were gone, he secreted his knife out and began to haul his bed away from the wall, leaving just enough space for him to sit between the furniture and the wall. Slowly, he took his knife in hand, driving it into the plaster of the wall.

His whole focus went into this single act of defiance. His name. They would never take his name from him, he decided. They could brainwash him and attempt to create what ever weapon they wanted from his flesh, but he was determined to keep his spirit intact. Pietro took a vengeful glee as he carefully carved his name into the wall, his fingers tracing over the letters as he brushed away the dust. Triumphantly, he shoved his bed back into place, effectively obscuring the marks he made, protecting his secret.

They've taken everything from him, but he would always have this.


	2. Dismantling and Rebuilding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pietro begins falling apart at the seams.

The testing continued, and, while nowhere as rigorous as when he had first been abducted, it constantly kept him drained and he would return to his cell at night completely exhausted, but thankfully lucid. A routine had been developed, bringing something akin to normalcy to his life: wake up, eat whatever they slid under the door for him, get moved to the infirmary, give blood, go into the training room, exercise, go back to the infirmary, have his vitals taken, get thrown back into the cell, have dinner, pretend to sleep until the nurses leave, and push the bed out of way to examine his name that he had carved into the wall. The monotony of each day drove him to near madness, and with little to divert his attention he feared he may one day reveal his ploy, and be completely wiped of everything.

The only inconsistent, unpredictable feature in his life was the wispy red figure that visited him, her form glowing, the red color billowing like smoke off her skin as her presence drew his attention, pulling him temporarily out of his misery. Some nights, she came for a brief moment, a puff of smoke flooding the room and leaving just as quickly, and he would lament his loneliness. Some nights, she was only there for a moment or two, not a word spoken to him, but perhaps the touch of her hand upon his shoulder, his cheek... Some nights, they would speak (or rather, he would speak at her, her words were often indistinguishable, and the only time he could recollect having an actual conversation with her was the night before he carved his name into the wall) until the break of dawn, or whatever time it was that they came to fetch him. Whoever, or whatever she was, she made this torturous process far more tolerable, granting him the ability to express his autonomy, which was slowly slipping between his fingers like fine grains of sand.

Throughout the day, he attempted to keep himself withdrawn, only speaking when spoken to, and otherwise keeping to himself, instead pondering his history, trying to piece together whatever fragments of his mind were left after all of the erasure Hydra had done, to determine just who Pietro was. Who had he known, where had he lived, did he have a family out there somewhere? A mother? Father? Nothing came to mind, instead coming to a complete halt as he attempted to delve into the thick fog clouding his memory. Scouring his mind seemed to bring back nothing, and eventually he decided to direct his energy towards planning: examining every corridor of his labyrinth like facility, learning where the doors were, drawing a map in his mind and making a crude map with his knife beside his bed, directly underneath his name.

It was during this time that he met the faces to go with the voices he would always hear at his brainwashing procedures. He was pulled from the infirmary one morning, instructed to follow the doctor, who shuffled towards a large, almost imposing door, gesturing Pietro in with a sweep of his hand. The low creak of the door opening seemed somehow terrifying. Perhaps it was the break in routine that had him on edge, but everything seemed far more sinister than usual. As he entered, he found two men, a bald one behind a large desk, and the other standing beside him, studiously flipping through his notepad before looking up to give Pietro a glance of acknowledgement.

"Ah, here he is, our soldier. Sit," instructed the bald man behind the desk as Pietro entered the room, glad for at least something of a break in the constant cycle of training and sleeping, with fits of hallucinations serving as his only distraction. Following the instructions, Pietro immediately seated himself in front of the mahogany desk, the chair more luxurious and comfortable than the cot he had in his cell. Rich, emerald green velvets draped the windows to his right, the natural light that seeped through the cracks stunning him for a few moments as his eyes attempted to adjust. It had been four years since he's seen natural daylight, and his body was not prepared for such a sudden change. There was a fireplace to the left of the desk, a warm fire currently blazing away and above it was an oil painting of the bald man, fierce and indomitable. How was it that they could afford such an opulent office, yet they couldn't be bothered to provide him with a decent bed, food, or, hell, a shower more than three days a week?

 _It's because they don't give a damn about you. You're expendable_. he reminded himself, sending a cautious glance to the man at the desk, whose mouth was something of a thin line at the moment. Fear struck Pietro's heart; had they discovered his act? Was he going to be shot and killed here in this room? Beside the bald man at the desk was another one, grey hair and a doctor's coat, and apparently somewhat older than the one at the desk, given the amount of wrinkles he bore.

"You've summoned me? I don't believe we've met," Pietro said, keeping a cautious eye on the pair, sizing up what in this room could be used as a defensive weapon should they try to execute him- the decorative letter opener laying on the desk would do nicely, he decided.

"Ah, but we have. Not properly, of course, but we have met you. Four years, and we've been there, in the shadows, encouraging your growth. But that is beside the point," the man behind the desk said, waving his hand for dramatic effect. "You will know us now. You may address me as Baron von Strucker, and from this day forth, I am your commanding officer. This," he said, pausing to gesture towards the older man. "Is herr doktor List, he will ensure your health."

Pietro said nothing, instead giving a nod of acknowledgment towards the doctor, who returned the gesture.

"Doctor List, you had some questions for our soldier, yes?" the baron asked, giving a piercing glance towards Pietro.

The doctor wasted no time in immediately asking "How have you felt as of late?"

How has he felt? He's been snatched from wherever his home is, had his memories wiped, was tortured on a near daily basis into submission by an organization that wanted to completely erase his identity, and his only friend in the world was a hallucination he's only conversed once with. He's furious, enraged beyond belief at the nerve of this doctor, daring to ask how he felt.

"I've been fine."

 _Liar_.

And so it went, Pietro being questioned about everything and anything doctor List could think of: his growth, his health, his current state of mind (though the doctor shouldn't have expected anything less than utter compliance), and his state of training, all while Pietro fabricated lies to keep their suspicions low.

All that remained was to count down the days when they were foolish enough to put him in the field. He would run to the ends of the Earth, he decided, never to be seen again.

At fifteen, they had reached the breakthrough they were seemingly waiting for since day one. It started with an ear-splitting ringing sensation in his head, his hands coming to clasp his ears as though he could somehow block out the noise. The sudden jolt of pain down his spine terrified him- it had been nearly six months since their last experimentation, and instead they began to focus upon making him physically stronger rather than diverting their attention to his loyalty towards Hydra. The agony grew overwhelming as it continued to spread through his limbs, twisting every nerve beneath his skin into a pinpoint of searing anguish. Pietro felt ablaze, his skin breaking out into a fine sheen of sweat, and his limbs gave out on him as he collapsed on the floor of his cell, the cool concrete below providing little comfort when he felt as though he was burning alive in his own skin.

_What have they done?_

His body seemed to vibrate, his limbs quivering at speeds he hadn't even known possible by mankind. His mind was an uncoordinated mess, and for half a moment, he wondered if they had begun to drug him again. Paranoia flooded his system, the fear that they had discovered his ruse and were going to subject him to further procedures overtaking his thoughts. A loud shriek of agony and fear parted from his lips, tears spilling uncontrollably down his face as he continued to shake, and he curled into himself, hoping to somehow ease his pain. His bones felt as though they were shattering, everything inside of him bursting into a scorching pain. What felt like electricity began to jolt down his spine, licking down his legs and through his arms, and in a surprising bolt of energy, he slammed himself into the corner of his room.

Outside he could hear the excitable chatter of the doctors, as though this were somehow the most phenomenal thing they've ever witnessed, calling their superiors with the 'good fortune', as they had worded it. Pietro couldn't see a single part of this that was 'fortunate' in any sense of the word, not when he was in so much agony he could barely find the strength to think.

Several doctors flooded into the room, working to hoist him onto a wheeled stretcher. The movement of the ceiling overhead as they carted him towards the infirmary was somehow slow, the lights lingering in his eyes far longer than he would have liked. The medical staff began scuttling about, jabbing him full of needles and testing his vitals, setting him up with an IV and scribbling notes on their clipboards the whole while. A loud shriek of fear passed his lips, which, in his great panic, he had bitten too hard and cracked pit open, blood dribbling down his chin. Never before in his life has he felt more afraid, more helpless, a spike of cold dread spreading from his stomach and up his spine to chill his rapidly beating heart. In an impressive display of stamina, he thrust himself back onto his feet, and careened into a wall, as though he could somehow outrun this pain. Around him, the doctors seemed wholly shocked, and Pietro's head was spinning, from a sudden rush of blood to the head, he assumed. Slowly, far too slowly, the doctors approached him, coming to grasp his limbs, guiding him back to the table, the touch of their fingers on his arms drawing another loud cry of distress. His entire world was reduced to this: a strange, overwhelming sense of disorientation, and fear that they had found him out, and were killing him in the worst way possible.

There was nothing more confusing than the blur that was his limbs in a world that seemed to be flowing slower than sap down a tree.

Red filled his vision, the color bringing him a small relief. "Just breathe, Pietro. You'll survive this."

"You... You're here again?" he thought, attempting to focus his blurred vision on his hallucination. For a moment, he swore he could see her face, a pretty one at that, and could hear her voice as clear as a bell.

She didn't answer, her hand coming to trace the curve of his cheek, soothing his mind. Pietro closed his eyes, taking in a deep breath.

_Breathe, just breathe..._

"He's flatlining!"

"Where is List?"

"Strucker will be none too pleased if the project dies! Get the defibrillator, now!"

"No, don't! He's fine! He's breathing!"

From the corner of his eye, Pietro could see List entering the infirmary, clipboard in hand and a stern expression on his face. He immediately handed his clipboard over to one of the scientists, moving towards Pietro, whose body had finally stopped vibrating and vision had returned, albeit a bit fogged. The cold press of a stethoscope sliding under his shirt and against his chest gave Pietro a minor jolt, and he flinched a little from the sudden pain in his body, every muscle and bone protesting the movement. Once the stethoscope was gone, Pietro slowly maneuver himself to his side, his back facing the horde of scientists as though he could somehow block out the world if he couldn't see it, shutting his eyes in a desperate attempt to calm himself.

"What is the problem?" doctor List asked, turning towards the panicked doctors and retrieving his notepad to write something down, with the occasional glance sent towards Pietro.

"He was flatlining, herr doktor," explained one of the scientists.

"And the electrocardiograph machine wasn't recording his heartbeat?" List asked, his voice eerily calm and completely collected.

_Nothing more than their weapon. If I died, it wouldn't matter to anyone._

At this point, would he even mind being dead? Anything would be better than this perpetual state of fear, self-loathing, and heartlessness.

"Yes, herr doktor," replied the scientist.

The doctor gave a hefty sigh, clicking his pen against his clipboard for a moment before once again writing something. "How do you feel?" A question directed at Pietro, who opened one of his eyes as he attempted to look over his shoulder.

For a moment, Pietro wondered if he was underwater- the sound was so distorted, the words slurring out into a long, drawn-out mess of syllables, the man's lips moving as slow as the rest of his body. This wasn't valium, he knows valium, and this wasn't the gas they had administered before loyalty procedures. None of the drugs he knew would produce such a feeling of heightened anxiety with whatever this side effect was.

Slowly, he turned over in his bed, cracking his other eye open to look at the doctor. "Hmm?"

"How do you feel?"

"Stiff," Pietro replied, pushing himself up into an upright sitting position, his feet a few inches from the floor.

"Be more specific."

"My legs in particular are sore. Rest of me hurts, that hurts most," His voice felt hoarse, almost foreign to his own ears. It was possible that he's thrown out his voice from the agony he was suffering, his shrill shrieks depleting his energy entirely, but part of him was also certain that it was because he hasn't spoken in at least a month.

The doctor examined him with a brief glance over his clipboard. Clearly he deemed Pietro fit enough to walk, as he immediately requested "We've a few tests we need you to do. If you'd follow me..."

"Lead the way." _Always the perfect weapon._

After an hour, Pietro was allowed to sit back in the infirmary, several physical tests and blood samples drawn, and his mind still a bit scattered. He refused to let that distract him. He needed to know what was happening to him, what their designs were for him and his future regarding that unusual episode.

Though the window, Pietro could observe doctor List, who was currently convening with Baron von Strucker and a few other scientists, while in the background several doctors were bustling about, carrying vials of blood, tissue, whatever else they took from him and occasionally handing notes to doctor List. With great determination, Pietro found himself able to focus himself enough to eavesdrop in on their conversation, desperate to know what had just happened to him.

"The project has officially entered stage two. He's developed his abilities. Super speed, it would seem. According to preliminary tests, we've noticed blur projection at relatively low speeds, little to no visibility a higher speed. The scientists predict speeds of up to 340 metres per second based upon the strength and composition of his bones and the speeds he's already able to reach. That would be just below supersonic speeds with little to no physical stress on his internal organs and bone structure. His lungs don't collapse with the force of air intake as he runs. His heart beats so fast, our ECG cannot record it. It's honestly quite fascinating, within merely a matter of hours, his entire body has changed its structure on a molecular level to be able to withstand incredible forces and the stress of moving at speeds faster than any creature ever seen on this planet. Technically speaking, he would be able to take punches from a person of normal strength with relative ease, but I suspect his brain activity has been increased as well, allowing him better reaction time, so I doubt anyone would be able to get a punch in anyhow," Doctor List explained as he flipped through his notes, speaking in hushed tones, as though he were almost afraid of Pietro hearing this information.

_They well should be. The things I will do with this power once I'm out of here... I could run to the ends of the Earth, they'd never catch me._

Baron von Strucker seemed highly pleased by this, a smile- more like a grimace attempting to show joy, Pietro thought- crossing his face as he examined the notes. With a quick glance over his monocle, he examined Pietro through the window before thoroughly inspecting the documents with a critical eye, his exultant joy at this occurrence growing greater with each page he read. "This is most reassuring. After the little mishap we've had three years ago, I was beginning to lose hope for this one. Seems he is our perfect project after all."

"Perhaps we should have Fenris remain in the facility. When the other half of this project-" Doctor List began, but was immediately cut off with a dramatic wave of the Baron's hand and a cynical scoff as he slapped the clipboard back towards doctor List's chest.

"You cannot expect much from them, the opulent fools. After their organization fell and Hydra was rebuilt, they've done very little but laze around," Baron von Strucker snarled, furrowing his brow as he turned towards the window. "But still, they're powerful, so we've not much choice, do we?"

Doctor List's brows raised at this. "So that means-?"

"Fenris is en route, we've discussed this many years prior, when the aforementioned part managed to escape," Strucker spoke slowly as he began to approach the window, his heavy boots clomping against the ground, echoing through the halls, and that cynical, unnerving smile growing broader as he peered in at Pietro, who was all but ready to start fleeing, regardless of how disoriented he was. All of Pietro's effort went into keeping himself still, reminding himself that any sign of fear would destroy his façade, and the brainwashing procedures would begin anew. "This one though, he has an ability that is much more useful to us than the other. That one was deadly, yes, but this one can be too, in a different manner. And far better than that, he's able to remain unseen. They call the Winter Soldier a ghost story?" the Baron said, smirking and giving an amused huff before continuing, "This one will be the stuff of legends, transcending the realm of the Winter Soldier. This one is dangerous- not in the way of Fenris, but in the fact that they will not be able to track him down, nor predict him," There was a short pause, the Baron's cat like smile fading, his voice becoming almost a whisper of horrified awe as he uttered his final thought. "S.H.I.E.L.D. wants a ghost story? We shall give them their ghost story."

And so, his fate was decided. Pietro would become the new breed of Hydra soldier. Gone were the days of Crossbones, gone were the days of the Winter Soldier. Quicksilver, they had called him, was going to be their deadliest yet. Stealthy, lethal, and, above all else, undetectable.

Time began to trickle slower, as though it were honey, and Pietro felt himself growing a bit mad with it all. People moved too slow, spoke too slow. He was the only one moving, and it infuriated him. Healing came faster. Small cuts and burns would fade within two days, knitting together perfectly, not even a scar left on his body. No more little marks to remind him that he was still human, no more tales to tell of where they had come from. Most of them had been inflicted by Hydra anyways, they were always testing their designs. Was he even human anymore? He dared not ask this aloud, lest they try to take away whatever semblance of individuality he had left.

There was a certain sense of disconnect, as though Pietro and Quicksilver were slowly becoming two different entities, and Pietro was being shoved to the sidelines, gagged and quieted so Quicksilver could blossom. It had to be done. Pietro would be killed, and if Pietro wanted to survive, Quicksilver had to impress his handlers.

Training grew incredibly rigorous, pushing him past his limits, leaving him with a lingering, sharp pain in his lungs as he pushed himself to go faster, to reach whatever goal they had set for him, anything to survive. They had concocted some sort of obstacle course: hurdles to leap over, people to pin, time limits to reach...

All of it became too much to bear, his mind slowly becoming nothing more than a machine to force his body to react to the shot of a gun, signaling the start of a trial.

"Not fast enough. Again," was all he ever seems to hear anymore, Strucker evidently was unimpressed with him, wanted him to become far more, become the weapon they had anticipated upon discovery of his powers.

And so he ran again, again, again, his mind becoming nothing more than the word, a broken record on repeat, and Strucker's sneer embedded in his subconscious.

"Again."

_Again._

His lungs felt as though they were burning, his entire body wracked with pain, shrieking for him to stop, to breathe.

"Again."

By sixteen, he had reached their expectations, able to reach sub-supersonic speeds. This was when they had deemed him ready to be implemented in the field. Alongside this came the two most awful people Pietro has ever had the misfortune of meeting in his life.

His first introduction was not an actual meeting, simply a glance through the infirmary windows, two new individuals coming into his line of sight- a man and a woman, based on their voices- speaking with Strucker. There wasn't much he discern about them from a distance, aside from the fact that they were roughly the same height, and both had blonde hair. Vague portions of conversation was able to be heard through the door, but considering what he heard, he really wished he hadn't bothered with listening in.

"You called us to oversee this dog? Why should we waste our time with him?" asked the woman, haughtily tossing her hair.

"He's our only successful project. Our last one escaped, and this one is valuable," Baron von Strucker explained, the tone of his voice authoritative and somewhat disinterested.

"And why bother us? He's expendable, a peon that can be easily replaced through bioengineering," the woman continued, clearly displeased.

Baron von Strucker gave a lengthy sigh, rubbing his temples as he was wont to do whenever he was exasperated. "We are working on that. For now, we need you two to become his handlers. We've been experiencing some problems in our American branches of Hydra that I should attend to. But as for why I bother with you two... If you want to keep your lavish lifestyle, you'll have to attend to my business while I repair some holes in Hydra. Besides, I think this one will interest you," Strucker said as he handed the two of them a folder.

As the folders were opened the new recruits' facial expressions grew shocked, eyes wide, and a faint smile on their lips. It was then that he was retrieved, returned to his cell for the night, leaving Pietro utterly perplexed.

It was that night that Baron von Strucker and doctor List finally deemed him fit for the field.

The next time he saw the new recruits it was a week later, and Pietro was sitting back in Strucker's office, carefully observing them across the room with a critical eye and a nervously thrumming heart. They made him anxious, and clearly they thought very little of him, based on the slight sneers they had on their lips as he entered the room (though their conduct the last time he saw them certainly didn't improve their case either).

"This is Fenris," Baron von Strucker said, gesturing to his right, towards the two. "They will be your handlers, as well as your backup should something turn sour on a mission and those fumbling S.H.I.E.L.D. agents are somehow able to apprehend you. I suspect you won't require their assistance, but they shall remain there in the shadows, ready to come to your aid. There will be no verbal communication to them if you are captured, can't let S.H.I.E.L.D. know your intent, nor let them prepare. Implanted in the sole of your shoe, under the cushions, will be an emergency tracking button, it will alert them to your location, and they will be dispatched to retrieve you. Their gifts are a bit... explosive, so I would advise seeking shelter, in the event a stray blast were to come your way."

"Which one is Fenris?" Pietro asked, examining the two of them. They were practically clones, their faces almost identical, with the man's jaw just a bit more sharp than the woman's, and the same, arrogant expression painted on their faces.

"They both are, they're one unit," Strucker said, a toothy, unnerving grin following.

Silently, Pietro nodded, observing them. The woman shifted, giving him a faint grimace as the man leaned in to whisper something in her ear, his palm coming to rest on her shoulder. Evidently, they were discussing his fate alongside of them, and he could only hope that it would involve his receiving missions without them behind him, providing him an opportunity to escape.

 _Once they let me out of their sight, there will be no catching me_.

Strucker began speaking again, staring Pietro dead in the eye. "We have found an underground S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters in the nearby town. Our first order is to destroy it: take their files and wipe their database. We cannot have them catch wind of what we are doing here, no? You and Fenris will go in, we have a diversion set up to distract the agents. Violence is not our priority right now, that will only lead to an increased effort to find us. For now, wipe the files."

 _No_. "Yes."

Strucker smiled at him again, a wry, half-smile. "I trust you will not fail me."

"Of course not."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally this was over 6000 words, but I've decided to split this chapter into two for better flow and editing purposes.


End file.
